In 1950, Variety published a list of the highest grossing films of all time. On the list were three movies that I had written: The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer, Easter Parade, and Annie Get Your Gun.
My periods of depression had stopped and I decided that the psychiatrist had been wrong about my being manic-depressive. I was fine. I continued to date Dona Holloway and looked forward to her company.
One evening at dinner, Dona said, “How would you like to meet Marilyn Monroe?”
“I’d like it,” I told her.
She nodded. “I’ll set it up.”
Marilyn Monroe was a sex symbol, superstar. Her troubled background included an insane mother, growing up in foster homes, a failed marriage, and a battle with alcohol and pills. But she had something that no one could take away from her: talent.
The next day, Dona called me. “You’re having dinner with Marilyn Friday night. Pick her up at her apartment.”
She gave me the address.
I was looking forward to Friday night. Marilyn Monroe had already had big hits in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, How to Marry a Millionaire, and Monkey Business, with Cary Grant.
The evening did not turn out as I expected. I went to Marilyn’s apartment at the appointed time and a woman who was her companion let me in.
“Miss Monroe will be with you in a few minutes. She’s getting dressed.”
The few minutes turned out to be forty-five minutes.
When Marilyn finally emerged from the bedroom, she looked stunning.
She took my hand and said softly, “I’m happy to meet you, Sidney. I admire your work.”
We had dinner at a restaurant in Beverly Hills.
“Tell me about yourself,” I said.
She began to talk. To my surprise, the thrust of the conversation was Dostoyevsky, Pushkin, and several other Russian writers. What she was saying seemed so incongruous coming from this beautiful young woman, that it was as though I were having dinner with two different people. I felt she had no real grasp of what she was talking about. It was only later that I learned that she was dating Arthur Miller and Elia Kazan, and that they were her mentors. It was a pleasant evening, but I never called her again.
Shortly after our dinner, she married Arthur Miller.
On an evening in August 1962, I was having dinner with Hy Engelberg, my doctor, at his home. In the middle of dinner, he was called to the telephone. He came back to the table and said, “I have an emergency. I’ll be back.”
It was almost two hours later before he returned.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “a patient of mine.” He hesitated. “Marilyn Monroe. She’s dead.”
She was thirty-six years old.
I had first met Harry Cohn, the head of production at Columbia Pictures, with Dona Holloway. Cohn had the reputation of being the toughest studio head in Hollywood. He had once bragged, “I don’t get ulcers, I give them.”
It was reported that there was only one man he feared: Louis B. Mayer. Mayer called Cohn one day and said, “Harry, you’re in trouble.”
Fearfully, Cohn asked, “What’s the problem, L.B.?”
“You have an actor under contract that I need.”
Relieved, Cohn said, “Take him, L.B., anyone you want.”
During World War II, there was a saying: Any writer at Columbia who quits to join the Army is a coward.
When Harry Cohn was in his early twenties, his best friend was Harry Ruby. The two of them worked together on a streetcar in New York. Harry Cohn was the conductor and Harry Ruby was the ticket-taker. They were inseparable.
Years later, when they were both in Hollywood, they went out on a double date, reminiscing about the old days. Harry Cohn was now running a studio and Harry Ruby was a successful songwriter.
“Streetcars have gone the way of the dinosaurs,” Harry Ruby said that evening. “When you and I worked on them, it was fun.”
Harry Ruby turned to the girls and nodded toward Cohn. “He was making eighteen dollars a week and I was making twenty.”
Harry Cohn’s face turned red.
“I was making twenty and you were making eighteen,” Harry Cohn snarled.